


A Million Moments

by plzdean



Category: Merlin (TV), Merlin - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Marriage Proposal, OCD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 12:59:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6240310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plzdean/pseuds/plzdean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a year, Merlin counted down the seconds to the same time each day that Arthur proposed to him. However, this one happy moment he remembers is a compromise for another he can't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Million Moments

One year since the proposal. Three hundred and sixty-five days. Eight-thousand, seven hundred and sixty hours. Five hundred and twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes. Thirty-one million, five hundred and thirty-six thousand seconds. And counting. Merlin couldn’t stop counting.

Sometimes he would sit before the clock and simply count the ticks and tocks, watch the rotations of the thin black hands as they struck a six or seven. Once the clock stuck twelve thirty-two each day, he would be met by a shudder – this was the exact time those words had slipped between Arthur’s lips. That sweet question that rang loud throughout Merlin’s head, mixing with the blood in his veins, sending a shiver through his heart that ended with a nervous pang. Another one thousand, four hundred and forty minutes had passed since that moment had occurred one day previous, but it always felt the same.

He wondered if after three hundred and sixty-five of these moments had passed, if the feeling would persist. And it did. And, thankfully? Well, he was fairly certain he was thankful.

It’s not as if he would ever forget the moment, anyway; the way Arthur had walked into their bedroom with freshly polished shoes and the sleeves of his deep blue shirt rolled up to his elbows, the way he would not look away from Merlin after the question had been spoken regardless of the deep red that had set into his cheeks. He would not look away until he got his answer – and that three letter, monosyllabic word did not so much as hesitate to escape in Merlin’s hurried breath.

So of course he _was_ thankful. That feeling meant the memory was still alive in his head. It meant the moment would never escape him. Well, it would escape him eventually. Many had told him he would feel much better if he let that feeling go, but he could barely bring himself to do it. And he would sit before a clock and count the moments that continued to elapse since that day – that pivotal day where everything was just fine. No… _better_ than fine. Everything was _perfect_. Merlin wished everything would be perfect again.

_“And…how does that make you feel?”_

He’d heard this question over and over again in a thousand different contexts, he should be sick of it by now. Maybe he already was. Or maybe that question allowed him to relive that day again, so he could never truly detest it. How many seconds would account for the number of times he’d heard it spoken?

How did he feel when Arthur placed the band of silver over his forth finger then stood to take both of his hands? It made him numb. In the good way. It made him feel invincible, like he had the whole world in his hands just then, and as far as he was concerned, he did, confirmed in the way Arthur pulled him closer. He knew just then that there would never be a moment he doubted life as long as this man stood close in front of him. It was then Merlin’s head was filled with the scent of Arthur’s aftershave – it was heavy but sweet, not one he recognised. How did that make him feel? It made him feel special. It meant Arthur had gone out and purchased a new bottle of the stuff – probably something expensive – just for that occasion that would last but the length of time it took to ask a question and receive simple answer.

 

But he knew that was not what the question was asking – those moments were past, lived, long-gone. The question did not care for a time that existed eight-thousand, seven hundred and sixty hours ago. The question only cared for now: how does that make you feel? How does sitting before a clock fighting the press of sleep at your eyelids make you feel? How does fighting the need to wash, eat drink because you are too afraid of missing that one moment make you feel? How does twelve thirty-two in the afternoon make you feel today compared to how it felt yesterday?

“It feels like a compromise. I missed the one moment I shouldn’t have missed. It feels like I have to remember that moment because otherwise, how will Arthur ever forgive me for missing the one moment that really matters? I should know the day, the hour, the minute, the second. I need to remember that moment, I need to know how it felt, I need to relive every feeling, every thought. But I can’t. And no matter how hard I try, the moment won’t come back to me. Each day I let that one moment pass knowing that each second that passes could be the one I’m missing. So I remember a moment I _do_ know, and I memorise how that feels instead. I know it’s a compromise, but what else can I do?”

 ***

Ever woken from a dream and not been able to recall a single detail? You know a dream occurred, you know have a vague memory of whom was involved too. But the dream itself is unattainable no matter how hard you try to remember it, as if locked in a part of your brain to which you have no key. Merlin was well acquainted with this feeling, as most people are. But a dream is simply a dream – they’re not real, and like most fleeting memories, fade within hours, or days.

But for Merlin, it had not been a dream. It had been a period of hours – twelve or so – that were gone, wiped from his memory. He had no recollection of what he’d missed, but was left with nothing but a face of grazes and a deep cut beneath his eye that doctors had said would have blinded him had the glass splintered just a centimetre higher.

Within those twelve missing hours, three months after the proposal, was a moment where the world around him fell to pieces. A single second that he wished he could relive because he _deserved_ to feel that pain. And he _did_ feel pain, yes, but it was the pain of the after-thought, the pain of the result. It was not the pain of the experience. And the experience is what makes pain worth enduring. Without the experience, can it even feel real? 

It wasn’t just that one moment that was missing, it was the couple of hours leading up to it too. They had been in the car together, Merlin and Arthur, but where had they been going? Was there music playing? Were they happy? Did Arthur glance towards Merlin when his favourite Pixies song came on the radio, just to watch the way his eyes lit up at the sound of the guitar? What was the weather like? Was it raining, snowing, sunny? There must have been ice…Arthur wasn’t a bad driver, and black ice is not uncommon on Carlisle country side roads…

The only details he knew was what he had been told. He knew Arthur had climbed out from where the car was crushed under the back of the lorry, and picked Merlin off the road where he was lying unresponsive, despite having broken both his legs, his collar bone too. He knew that Arthur had been awake all the while they waited for the ambulance to arrive. The driver of the lorry had escaped unscathed, but still Arthur would not let him near Merlin. There was a lot of blood too. Arthur could not tell whose blood was whose…although it appeared most of it was his own. He was bleeding out profusely from a severed artery in his neck – the glass was still lodged beneath his skin. But Arthur could not feel pain, to him his limbs where barely broken. Perhaps it was the adrenaline, or maybe the pain of believing Merlin was dead in his arms was enough to overpower any physical pain.

He knew Arthur had told, no, _ordered_ , the paramedics to focus on saving his partner first, that he himself would wait for the second ambulance to arrive, that his wounds weren’t really that bad. It was when they had carried Merlin away on a stretcher into the back of the ambulance that it was then Arthur’s body gave up on him. The paramedic that had remained with him could do nothing to stop his pulse from fading, and it was there in a field at the side of a country road in January that he died.

And Merlin could not remember a single second of it. All he had in his head was a construction of images that did not belong to him, that would never be accurate to reality. And that moment in time that Arthur’s heart beat for the last time was lost in history, and there was nothing Merlin could do to salvage it.

Now all he could do was sit before a clock on the floor and count the minutes to the moment in which a memory exists where everything is perfect. Where Arthur is alive, and the moment can be accurately placed. As long as that memory remains clear, he doesn’t need anything else. Except Arthur of course, and the feeling in his heart when their fingers intertwined.

 


End file.
